


The Make-Out Kings of Beacon Hills High

by Siriusstuff



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - High School, Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski are the Same Age, Eventual Smut, Jennifer Blake re-imagined and ooc, M/M, Making Out, Mentions of other characters - Freeform, Minor Background Relationships, Minor Character Death, Oral Sex, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Teen Derek, Teen Romance, getting caught, please see top note regarding Jennifer Blake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 11:18:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14471532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siriusstuff/pseuds/Siriusstuff
Summary: A 5+1 fic about the trials and tribulations of two horny high school sweethearts, Stiles Stilinski and Derek Hale.





	The Make-Out Kings of Beacon Hills High

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this fic last summer. I was in a surly mood most of the time I was writing it and that may be why almost everyone (except Derek) is a bit of a dick in this fic.
> 
> I got stuck in the last part, the +1. I rewrote it twice and for weeks possibly months I’ve considered it unfinished. As of yesterday I realized I’m done fussing over it, and I’m posting it.
> 
> I have an abiding hostility for any character who ever hurt Derek Hale. In this fic I take revenge on Jennifer Blake. I’ve aged her up (a lot!) and based her looks on Bette Davis’s famously grotesque portrayal of Baby Jane Hudson in _Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?_ (An image search on Baby Jane Hudson will provide abundant results.)
> 
> I based her behavior, speech habits and vocabulary on a teacher I had in grammar school.
> 
> I imagine Derek here as teenage Hoechlin.
> 
> The majority of the story is about their not getting to have sex but there are smutty references throughout and explicit sex eventually, so I’ve rated this fic as explicit.

(5)

The office of Ms. J. Blake, Vice Principal, smells like the windows have never been opened.

Along the wall adjacent to her office door Stiles Stilinski sits beside Derek Hale, both of them waiting for what they’re sure is a reprimand, a warning, a lecture at least, from said vice principal. They are sure because those are the only things Ms. Blake ever does.

Behind her tidy desk, with obligatory paper tray, cup of pens, stack of wire-bound black record books and three thick bound volumes, one with _Rules and Regulations_ on its spine, sits Ms. Blake herself.

She is _old_ , maybe even ancient, but it wouldn’t take an archaeologist to see she’s past retirement age. And no one’s been daring enough to suggest she retire so the position can be filled by someone born later than, maybe, between world wars?

While anticipating the aged sourpuss’s verbal assault, Stiles is thinking Ms. Blake’s powdered face makes her resemble a zombie. It doesn’t help that the color on her lips always looks too red too, so maybe she’s a vampire.

But she pencils darker eyebrows over her actual ones, which are still visible though caked over. Now Stiles is thinking scary clown. Ms. Blake’s colorless hair reaches to her shoulders and ends in sausage curls surrendering to gravity.

So, definite yes for scary clown. And vampire. And zombie.

Stiles’s discovery of Ms. Blake’s true evil nature stops when he realizes she’s already begun addressing them, telling them their behavior in the bleachers during the weekend’s battle of the high school bands was reported as “unseemly.” That’s why they’ve been called to her office.

(Yes, they’d been making out. Not _in_ the bleachers. _Behind_ the bleachers. And yes, Stiles’s Batman t-shirt _was_ shoved up on one side where Derek mouthed at Stiles exposed skin.)

“In my day,” Ms. Blake informs the duo, “young men conducted themselves with circumspection.”

“In your day,” Stiles mutters, “the planet was still molten lava,” and Derek has to fake a coughing fit to cover his laughter.

Stiles’s quip the half-deaf vice principal never hears but she sends Derek out to get a drink of water.

Once Stiles is the sole object of her attention Ms. Blake’s tone chills considerably.

“Mr. Stilinski,” she sneers though maybe that’s just the permanent look on her face. “What do you think your father, the sheriff of this county, would say were he informed of his son’s participation in public lewdness?”

It’s a good thing he’s alone at that moment because if Derek were still there beside him Stiles would definitely lose it.

Instead he opts for his brand, which is logic with a twist of contempt. Ms. Blake is the vice principal after all, but Stiles suspects her authority has shrunk in inverse proportion to the amount of calcification in her brain.

“Ms. Blake, Derek and I were _behind_ the bleachers. Not exactly ‘public,’” Stiles manages to say with some semblance of respect.

“ _Nonetheless, you were observed!”_ she counters, though the full force of her retort is blunted by Derek’s return to the office at just that moment.

His eyes are red like he’s been laughing the whole time he was gone. Stiles takes one look and has to whip his head back so all he can see is Ms. Blake’s grotesque visage, killing laughter in its wake.

As if forgetting it was Stiles she’s been berating she glowers at Derek and asks, “What do you have to say for yourself, young man?”

Derek’s at a loss as to exactly what Ms. Blake’s questioning, not sure if she forgot she sent him out to get a drink for his cough or if she thinks he’s just now strolling in late to this talking-to.

“Excuse me, Ms. Blake?”

Dating Stiles Stilinski has introduced perennially good student Derek Hale to the more fun side of life, true, but his manners never fail him.

“Your mother is the mayor of Beacon Hills,” Ms. Blake resumes, with the shaky remnants of what might once have been formidable command. “Do you really think it reflects positively on her if her son is accused of _gross_ _indecency_?”

Derek is pretty sure Ms. Blake voted for the other guy, just as he’s sure part of what Ms. Blake considers “indecent” is the very idea of boys kissing boys. But besides manners Derek is also equipped with skills in diplomacy and the power to charm.

Confronting a dragon, even a decrepit one like Ms. Blake calls for every resource Derek possesses.

“With all due respect, Ms. Blake,” he begins, “my mother and my father know I’m dating Stiles and they have no problem with it.”

A tremor seems to rock her head as the vice principal reacts: “And will they ‘have no problem’ once you’ve acquired a reputation for obscene behavior?”

Stiles snorts uncontrollably, about to blow up laughing for sure, but after only a second notices Ms. Blake looks like she’s been flash-frozen. Literally, she’s shut down, stopped working, mid scold. She’s not moving and her eyes look slightly blank.

Stiles wonders if it’s possible Ms. Blake just died, just like that, sneer still in place. It would be too perfect.

“Ms. Bla—” Derek starts to blurt when suddenly she stands up, surly look there on her face as if nothing unusual just happened.

“Here are your passes, back to your respective classrooms,” Ms. Blake says.

Derek’s lost again as events continue to unfold in no way he can comprehend, so he stays put but Stiles hops from his seat instantly and goes for their passes.  

Ms. Blake hands him only his own.

Stiles turns around to see Derek looking at him like _What the eff just happened?_ And Stiles hopes the expression on his face makes it clear to Derek, _Just get your pass and let’s gooooooooo!_

Instead he pitches his head back not as subtly as he thinks he does, to where Ms. Blake stands. Derek leaps up, receives his pass without even a final word of warning from the old bat.—But suddenly he thinks of something funny using the word _formaldehyde_.

They manage to reach the hallway without making the situation any worse for themselves and, seeing what’s left till next period, Stiles and Derek bolt to the restroom, because great minds think alike.

(4)

“That was weird,” is the first thing Derek says after they’re inside a toilet stall, the spacious one wheelchairs can fit in.

Between the sound of kisses amplified by empty restroom acoustics Stiles echoes, “That was weird.”

His mouth tastes like that ropey red candy he loves. Derek wonders when Stiles ate candy even though he already knows Stiles stealth-eats like a ninja.

Before Stiles’s sweet mouth makes him completely forget Ms. Blake, Derek interrupts their canoodling. “Hey, I thought of something.” He’s grinning like someone in toothpaste commercial.

Skeptical anything’s more important than what they were doing but helpless before Derek’s dazzling smile, Stiles shuts his eyes and only asks, “What.”

“I thought of another name for Ms. Blake— _Mrs. Formaldehyde_. Instead of Mr. Hyde, _Mrs. Formaldehyde_.”

Stiles squints his eyes once more, his smile off center. ”That’s funny… Hyde, like… Doctor… Jekyll… and…” He kisses Derek’s staring face and declares they should resume their immediately preceding lascivious activity.

But then Derek looks disappointed his joke flopped so Stiles sees about remedying that, nuzzling against Deck’s neck while he whispers, “Your dirty love notes, now _there’s_ artistry.”

Derek’s last dirty love note to Stiles had been a limerick rhyming on _penis_.

“And you do _this_ —” Stiles kisses Derek full on the lips, sentence never finished once Derek presses himself against Stiles. They both start grinding, not in sync at first but Stiles now knows Derek’s dick is as hard as his.

Stiles’s real smile is lost in their kisses but he can’t help it whenever he thinks about Derek, just as randy as Stiles beneath that nice boy/good student exterior and never more than seconds away from a hard-on once they start doing anything the least bit sexy.

Before he can kudo himself further, out in the hall the bell clamors. The two boys pause, tense up a little, waiting, still tense when the restroom door sounds like it’s been blasted open and a noisy bunch of guys barges in.

Derek, soundlessly as a cat, leaps into a crouch atop the toilet seat cover as Stiles recognizes Jackson Whittemore’s exaggerated groan in relief at a urinal.

Jackson’s gross and Stiles has no idea what Danny Mahealani sees in him but he suspects it has a lot to do with all the wild, hot sex he gets from unleashing Jackson’s repressed raunchiness.

“Stilinski, you in there?” Stiles hears him ask right outside the stall door.

Jackson shares the class they were in when they got summoned to the vice principal’s office, so whether he’s just guessing or just has good intuition Stiles doesn’t know. But he wouldn’t give Jackson the time of day, so he won’t give Jackson any clue he’s guessed right. He and Derek keep silent and still.

“You’re aware it’s against the law for able-bodied persons to utilize facilities reserved for the disabled,” Jackson blusters, because he is without doubt the world’s most perfect shining example of asshole that’s ever been.

“Stilinski, I know you’re in there,” Jackson keeps on. “With Hale.—Who’s suckin’ whose dick?”

Everybody knows Stiles and Derek are together, so what. But Derek must be feeling sensitive after his encounter with scary clown vampire zombie Blake so he doesn’t want to be caught in another compromising situation.

“Greenberg!” Jackson shouts. “Get over here. Get down and look in there and tell me if it’s Stilinski,” Jackson orders, though it’s absurd to think Greenberg will do any such thing and Jackson knows it.

He doesn’t relent without a condition though. “Alright, we’re going, but you’re staying and waiting till whoever comes out of there...”

Stiles of course hears everything and if Jackson were a friend Stiles would be after him constantly to bone up on his strategizing and sneaky skills—because Jackson’s suck beyond words.

In the silence following the exit of Jackson and the others, all Stiles can hear is somebody assumed Greenberg breathing outside the stall.

After a long minute there’s a voice, definitely Greenberg’s, announcing, “I’m leaving. I don’t care about any of this.”

It sounds like he might be talking to himself.

After they hear the lavatory door open and close again they crack the stall door for a look out and can’t see anyone there.

Derek heads to a sink to splash a little water on his face and comb his hair, while Stiles rocks side to side close by.

No one in the dwindled down crowd of students scurrying to their next classes is paying any attention to the boys room door when Stiles and Derek exit so, after one last quick kiss, they slip out, walking together in the same direction to where the hallway turns—only to see Jackson, poised strategically against the wall, his arms crossed, his expression smug.

“Ah ha!” gusts from him. It startles a wince from Derek. He doesn’t have a habit of cursing (yet) but groans, “ _Crap_.” Stiles merely faces Jackson, sticks out his tongue and blows a raspberry in perfect imitation of a very wet fart.

They leave him behind, not hearing whatever Jackson grumbles in their wake but pretty sure it’s something self-congratulatory.

“Such an asshole,” is Stiles final comment before he and Derek part ways till the school day’s end.

(3)

People called the big house where Derek lives “the Hale Mansion” even before his mother bore the title of Mayor.

The house is no mansion, it’s just big, Stiles knows, and it has to be big because there have always been and probably always will be lots of Hales at any given moment in human history.

But all of Derek’s older sisters and brothers are away at college or moved out on their own. So just Derek, Derek’s parents, and his little sister Cora are the house’s current occupants and of those only Derek is now actually, physically, present and occupying.

Stiles is present too.

Mayor mom’s in her office in town. Derek’s dad’s off assembling greenhouses somewhere, Derek says. And Cora. Cora must be out doing one of her things (and she has a lot of them) because she’s not there either.

Stiles and Derek do not in fact spend their every waking moment groping one another but an empty Hale house is one of the rarest occurrences on planet Earth. For Derek to be having that experience with Stiles right there with him makes the only thinkable action flinging himself across his bed and climbing on top of Stiles, who jumped on the bed first.

Derek pulls off his shirt before getting Stiles’s shirt out of his sight too. Half straddling Stiles’s crotch, he rocks his butt over it and Stiles is very happy about that.

“You’re so hot, you’re so hot,” Stiles chants, adding more matter-of-factly, “Even your armpits are sexy!”

Derek’s response is to shift and stretch out over Stiles, so that they’re skin to skin.

He can’t get enough, rubbing his face all over Stiles’s bare flesh.

Derek’s sex-goal is to finally have sex with Stiles where they can get completely naked and can get cum all over each other then take a shower together to clean off.

That fantasy isn’t happening this afternoon but doesn’t stop Derek from bringing his mouth and Stiles’s together after Stiles hauls him back face to face.

Stiles never stays on the bottom of anything for long so it’s almost inevitable he starts rolling till he’s reversed their positions, which frees him to get at more of Derek, suck a little on his nipples, lick his neck, pepper kisses over his mouth and his—

—Face looks like there’s something really bad behind Stiles.

Stiles hates having to look and then hates even more to see it’s Cora Hale standing in Derek’s bedroom’s open doorway. Her expression is inscrutable, which Stiles is about to learn is how Cora Hale looks when she’s plotting to take advantage of her misbegotten older brother.

“You weren’t home!” Derek shouts, flailing, fortunately without catapulting Stiles to a far corner of the room as a result. Nonetheless Derek flails off the bed in Stiles-worthy style.

In his short life there are not too many regrets he’d call significant, but at the top right now is his _not closing and locking his effing bedroom door_.

With not even a theatrical wicked cackle to start, “This is going to cost you, brother,” Cora declares once Derek’s close.

“Or what?” Derek tries for bold, the attempt short-lived when Cora’s face frowns around a convincing pout.

“Or else, ‘D-D-Daddy, I saw Derek having se-ex with his b-boyfriend,’” she whines in her best approximation of her formerly younger self.

No one in their right mind, not even in Derek’s family, will buy the baby act from the acknowledged living teen terror that is his little sister, but what she says will foster unnecessary lectures, unnecessary conversations—just, people not minding their own business. It’s been Derek’s perennial complaint since puberty.

The situation sucks but he thinks he can handle it when next he hears, “And then I’ll tell Laura all about it,” and then Derek’s sure he lacks desire to live in the aftermath of Cora doing that. His elder sister is a super-genius at annoying him.

“OK, how much?” He surrenders unconditionally.

Cora puts her finger across her mouth and pitches up her eyes while she hums ponderingly, every gesture meant to irritate her older sibling as much as she possibly can.

“Well,” she drawls. “Daddy says he’ll match as much money as I earn, to buy the mitt I want. So,” she pauses while Derek awaits a financial blow. When he hears Cora say, “Twenty dollars,” he’s shocked at the low amount but hopes he doesn’t show it.

Then Stiles just _has_ to take umbrage, sniping, “You know that’s extortion, don’t you?” when Derek can’t shush him fast enough.

“Hmm, he’s right,” Cora states, faux pondering again. “Now it’s thirty bucks.—I can upgrade to the Wilson.”

It’s Derek’s turn to whine. “Cora! I _worked_ for this money! I babysat the Manoogian twins for it! The _Manoogian_ twins, Cora! Aaron and Bebo Manoogian. For four hours.—Look, I still have a bruise.”

Being shirtless he shows the little purple mark—one not put there by Stiles—on his upper arm.

“Your story moves me,” Cora replies, not missing a beat. “I do chores for old Miss DeWitt, and she’s got _seven cats_ , Derek, and litter boxes everywhere. _Derek_. And mommy won’t let me charge the old bag of bones more than ten dollars a visit—and I have to do at least four different chores for her every time I’m there.” Not pausing she sails on. “Now you have thirty seconds to get me forty bucks. _Deal?_ ”

“Forty bu— Deal?” Derek might be screeching.

As Cora begins counting down, “Thirty… twenty-nine…” Derek quickly closes his door, taking the time to lock it this time.

Stiles complains, more quietly than before, “That’s so wrong,” then silently observes as Derek opens his dresser’s top drawer and comes up with the familiar green color.

Partially opening his door he holds up the hand with the bills.

The way Cora’s hand plucks away the money makes Stiles think of a moray eel snatching up unwary prey in its fearsome, greedy jaws.

Derek shuts and locks his door, as if that makes any difference now. Running fingers through his hair he mopes back to the bed where Stiles is lying cross-wise. Derek flops alongside him and blows out a long, dramatic exhale.

“I’d pay my half of the extortion fee except I don’t have any money,” Stiles says.

Derek sighs. “You don’t have to pay anything.”

Stiles flips over. He’s still shirtless too, and grinning in Derek’s face. “I’ll make it up to you in other ways, many, many times, in several different positions.”

“Not here you won’t,” Derek sums up with another breathy sigh, Stiles’s tease failing to produce even a smile.

Stiles isn’t one who gives up easily but the moment’s gone, the mood’s dead. Boners have been killed.

“In case you haven’t noticed,” Stiles admits as he slumps back beside Derek, “your little sister has every character trait of a future evil mastermind.”

“In case _you_ haven’t noticed,” Derek corrects Stiles, “my little sister is _already_ an evil mastermind.”

(2)

The following evening, in Big Bargains’ parking lot, Derek loads the Camaro’s trunk with cartons of drinks from a hand truck which Stiles is standing behind quite helpfully.

“It’s a life goal of mine to have a rich boyfriend,” Stiles says. “Just so you know.”

“’M not rich,” Derek drones.

“I dunno. Forty bucks hush money to—you know. And now however much all this costs.” Stiles starts tallying.

“I told Lydia I’d help out. It’s not that much,” Derek assures.

“Lots of ready cash is what I’m talkin’ ‘bout, boo.”

“I’m good at saving money,” Derek feels he can boast.

Stiles cuts in, “Then can I just say, though, when Cora—did that, you know. You sounded very resentful and distressed.”

“Of course I was.”

“So you aren’t still? I can stop obsessing over it?!” Growing familiar with Derek’s family life, Stiles, an only child, is currently of the opinion that multiple siblings are a plague on one’s peace of mind not just one’s privacy.

“I don’t want her to know if I’ve got money!” Derek laughs, feeling he’s finally pulled one over on Cora aka “Nemesister II.”

“I’d never let her know the truth,” Derek is bragging out loud at the same time he recognizes Sheriff John Stilinski, his boyfriend’s law enforcement father, Big Bargains coffee cup in hand, standing a few yards behind Stiles.

He’s in ear-shot too, of that there’s no doubt.

Once more Stiles must find out there’s something happening in back of him by the queasy look on Derek’s face.

He needs to keep better aware of his immediate perimeter, Stiles advises himself. There was a time when sneaking up on him was impossible, but that was before Derek Hale’s— _everything—_ became a non-stop distraction.

Whirling about-face, his father out of nowhere suddenly there before his eyes, Stiles’s instinctual response is to immediately commence distorting truth.

But there is no reason to distort this truth because he and Derek are only there innocently buying soda for Lydia’s upcoming cookout. So Stiles relaxes which is just as his father asks him, “This is what you meant by ‘studying for finals’?”

After an involuntary gulp he’s sure his father did not notice, “Dad?” Stiles proposes with that tone he gets when truth is on his side (for once.) “I didn’t say ‘study for finals’ I said ‘get ready for the end of school,’ which this is. These are refreshments for Lydia Martin’s Memorial Day party, and Lydia Martin’s Memorial Day party has become a Beacon Hills High tradition marking the end—”

“This is the second year she’s having it,” the Sheriff interrupts.

“Traditions have to start somewhere, Dad!” Stiles pleas.

John looks at his watch, forgoing the performance of his son’s next dramatic monologue. He questions, “It’s almost 10:30. Can you get this stuff wherever it belongs and get yourself home by 11? It’s a school night, Stiles.”

A few longish seconds pass before Stiles flails realizing his father is awaiting an actual answer, when he erupts with, “Yes! Yes, Dad!” He steps backwards pulling the emptied hand truck with him. “Just let me return this piece of property to this fine establishment whence we got it and we’ll be going immediately after that…” he rambles on till inaudible. John rotates away so he’s facing Derek again. The kid looks a little too spooked not to be hiding something.

But it’s just Derek still not getting over the fact he said loud enough for the sheriff to hear him proudly declare he ‘doesn’t tell her the truth,’ and the sheriff probably thinks he meant his mom when he said ‘her,’ and the sheriff’s department and the mayor’s office are on the same street in town so what are the chances the sheriff will meet his mom and tell her that her son tells her lies—

“Everything OK… Derek?” the Sheriff asks.

“I didn’t want my _sister_ to know the truth!” bursts from Derek’s mouth. “Because my sister… she’s a pain in my… neck.”

John Stilinski has long experience receiving strange responses to his questions but is relieved of having to react to Derek’s by Stiles’s bounding back into their midst, breathless as if speeding back to a potentially dangerous experiment he’d been forced to leave unattended.

“Well, Dad, it’s been really great meeting you out here so that we citizens of Beacon Hills remain aware the vigilant forces of good are always keeping a watchful eye out for us,” Stiles starts in instantly.

John quips, “ _Knowing_ how much you appreciate a ‘watchful eye.’”

“Yes, Dad, I do! I swear to—upon all that’s holy!” Stiles chooses to ignore his father’s weary smirk at that last part, but has so much more to say. “Now, Derek and I are just going to get going, you know, skedaddle on our way so I can get home, say my prayers and get myself to bed.—”

“Stiles.”

“Nope, Dad, say no more. Don’t let our little shopping chore keep you from your official duties any longer.—Goodnight! Be safe! Love you, Dad! Goodnight!—Goodnight, people of the parking lot.” Stiles ends his speech with a little bow, backing himself into the Camaro’s passenger seat.

Derek watches it all, the Stilinski father/son dynamic still a complete mystery to him.

Never in a million years would he ever talk to his own dad that way.

He offers a shy nod to the Sheriff before hastily joining Stiles in the car.

John steps out of the Camaro’s path as it departs, Stiles twiddling his fingers “bye-bye” at him and smiling like an idiot as he passes.

The impulse to ask Stiles if he thinks his father has any reason to talk to the mayor dies on Derek’s lips when Stiles begins excitedly explaining why now is _the_ most perfect time for them to head to “their spot” off the road through the Preserve, to make out.

“My dad’s obviously going in early because his shift doesn’t start till midnight,” Stiles elaborates. “And even if he asks whoever’s on patrol to drive by my house later, my Jeep is there. Who’s gonna know if I’m not actually home?”

Stiles always makes things sound absolutely doable, as far as Derek’s concerned. Besides, the enticement of getting his mouth and hands on his boyfriend has so far proved one Derek never resists.

So onward to the woods he points the Camaro, Stiles continuing to enthusiastically detail this opportunity to get in maybe even blow jobs, safe from prying eyes.

“We just had our statistical average intrusion,” Stiles surmises. “The odds are now astronomically in our favor!”

Derek doesn’t need to see the gleam in Stiles’s eyes to know it’s there.

Sheriff John had stopped for a coffee from Big Bargains because it’s on the way to the hospital, where he was headed to visit one Melissa McCall, R.N., who’d promised him this time she really would get a break so they could spend at least a little time together.

Encountering his son in the most unexpected places, always with the mayor’s son—nice kid but obviously very easily swayed—had by now achieved the status of persistent pattern, like most of Stile’s other behaviors—or _mis_ behaviors, especially the misbehavior of not doing what his father asks him to.

Driving to the hospital he radios the deputy on patrol.

“Hey, Parrish. Yeah, hi. Got a favor to ask. You remember telling me you saw my kid’s Jeep in the Preserve last week? Yeah. In about twenty minutes take a swing by that same spot, only this time look for a black Camaro. Yeah. Black Camaro. 6IFS532.—Oh, and, Parrish, this time be sure you stop, give the _occupants_ a good scare…”

(1)

Derek nearly flinches when the Friday morning daily announcements open in the principal’s dreary toneless voice.

“It is with sadness I must inform our student body and administration,” he booms, too close to the microphone, “of the sudden passing overnight of our esteemed vice principal, Ms. Jennifer Blake.”

Derek thinks he can hear a collective gasp from every classroom.

If only texting in school weren’t punishable by detention, Stiles would _so_ be firing off one to Derek in his home room right now. What he’d type he’s not sure; what he’s feeling is something akin to _“I knew it!”_ after witnessing the geriatric gorgon’s brain shut down earlier in the week.

But Derek thought it funny to call Ms. Blake, “Mrs. Formaldehyde”—which is used to embalm dead people—isn’t it. Now he feels guilty and creepy and possibly evil and he wishes he were with Stiles who always makes him laugh.

“Anyone who wishes to pay his or her respects or send flowers,” the principal drones on, “may ask at the secretary’s office for funeral details by the end of the school day. There will be a memorial for Ms. Blake in the gymnasium during seventh period this afternoon.”

Then Lydia Martin, the usual voice of morning announcements, recovers the mic. But no one’s listening, too busy buzzing with the news.

When they meet, what Stiles ends up saying to Derek is he should probably congratulate himself for being psychic since he foresaw the need for formaldehyde in the vice principal’s imminent future.

It doesn’t help Derek feel any better _at all_.

They keep close side by side so they can hold hands as later that day they enter the gym for the memorial. Seeing Lydia, Vernon Boyd and Erica Reyes already sitting together in the stands, they join them there.

Stiles can’t wait to relate the details of his and Derek’s session in Blake’s office that past Monday. Lydia listens with her standard façade of indifference until Stiles says, “I think Derek and I may have helped kill her!” when Lydia switches to her also standard know-it-all mode, informing him, “That’s an example of _post hoc ergo propter hoc_ , Stiles.”

“Wut?”

“ _’After this therefore because of this_ ;’ it’s a logical fallacy,” Lydia assumes she’s explaining.

Neither Latin gibberish nor principles of rhetoric have ever been on Stiles’s hit parade of interests. He glances at Derek, who at least appears to understand whatever Lydia’s spouting. Probably he’s just being polite, as usual. Stiles couldn’t care less—as usual.

Maybe Lydia doesn’t either, because her next words are, “Besides, if anyone killed Ms. Blake it’s Boyd and Erica.”

With another “ _What!”_ Stiles spins his head around to where he can see Erica sitting hunched over, smiling behind her hands over her face.

Then, “Handsome and me,” Erica purrs, caressing one of Boyd’s arms crossed over his chest while he stares up at the ceiling, “We were, y’know, kissing.—We didn’t know it was Ms. Blake’s car we were leaning on! She came out and caught us—”

“And dropped dead at the sight,” Stiles fills in.

“No. She yelled at us—”

“You call that yelling,” Boyd intones though still apparently more interested in the ceiling.

“It was,” Erica resumes. “And she said we had to come to her office today. But now…”

“She’s dead.” Stiles kind of wishes he and Derek could lay claim to sending the mean old hag to her grave and is about to say as much except for Derek’s face, which looks sad again. His magnificent eyebrows are scrunching and his lower lip’s pouted out a little. The latter makes Stiles want to latch his own lips onto it but probably that’s not a good idea in that particular setting.

Still he leans in close to his boyfriend to comfort him. “It’s nobody’s fault, Derek. Come on. She was _old_. Probably been living on borrowed time since before we were freshmen.”

Derek has no time to respond before “Excuse me. Your attention, please,” comes the inescapable monotone of the principal from the gym floor. Minutes into the memorial it’s obvious it’s a rush job because it’s nothing but the usual clichés about very recently deceased people.

Worse, chemistry teacher Adrian Harris follows the principal at the microphone. Stiles pays attention now only because it sounds like the notorious petty tyrant _admired_ Ms. Blake. Saccharine platitudes about her drip from his lips.

Turns out he considered her a _mentor_ , which earns Stiles’s hushed “Of course!” in Derek’s ear, though Derek just frowns, not getting whatever Stiles means.

Stiles continues, softly as he can, “If he says she was too beautiful for this world I’m going to _puke_.”

“ _Please don’t_ ,” Derek whispers back but at least there’s a smile.

Erica’s head joins their whisper-huddle. “ _You guys are so cute!”_

Capping the memorial is the band, performing what strikes Stiles’s ears as a horrific mash-up of Pachelbel’s Canon and Darth Vader’s march theme—which explains perfectly why they finished thirteenth of fourteen bands in last weekend’s battle.

At the end, in a gesture Ms. Blake herself would have without doubt vetoed if she weren’t dead, the entire school is dismissed early, in observation of her passing, or so it’s stated, but secretly so teachers and staff can get a head start on their long Memorial Day weekend.

In a clump of students drifting from the gym, Stiles stops when he notices Derek’s still somber expression. It reminds him not everyone treats death like he does, which he’s been informed is kind of callous. But that’s probably the result of his feeling half-orphaned half his lifetime ago.

“Aww, _Derek_ ,” he coos, up close and quiet, because he’s feeling downright sappy now. He strokes his fingertips over Derek’s shirt, at his sternum, and Derek takes hold of Stiles’s hand there. They’re communicating with their eyes when Erica’s voice cuts in.

“You two should kiss!” she cheers.

So they kiss, as the sea of students flows around them; and since they last locked lips right before parting for their separate rooms hours earlier, they don’t just peck.

_“Mr. Stilinski! Mr. Hale!”_

Stiles wants to roar “Fuck!” and roll his eyes like nobody’s rolled their eyes since time began when he sees it’s Harris, his perennially pinched up mouth reminding Stiles, like it always does, of a sphincter.

Stiles puts himself between Derek and Harris as the latter spews, “That is entirely inappropriate! Both of you report to my class room _now_ for detention.”

With steam about to blast from his nostrils and ears in outrage Stiles hears Erica decide to fall on her sword.

“Excuse me, Mr. Harris, this was my fault. I asked them to kiss,” she says.

Harris doesn’t even blink. “Very well,” he huffs, “You can join them in detention.” Then seeing Erica’s hand in Boyd’s, he adds, “And that goes for you too, Mr. Boyd.”

Behind him Stiles feels Derek get closer, touch his back where Harris can’t see. The contact alone calms him, though not all the way.

“I’ll be right behind you,” Harris declares, but since he’s nowhere in sight when they get to his classroom, Stiles takes that opportunity to wonder aloud if Harris were to walk in on them having a four-way make-out orgy maybe he’d suffer a stroke too.

(+1)

It isn’t even noon on Memorial Day Monday in Lydia Martin’s conspicuously fabulous back yard with Derek in board shorts and tank top and Stiles with nothing to complain about. Not even having to get there before anyone else, to get the drinks on ice, bothers him. Maybe they’ll have the pool to themselves for a little while. Maybe they’ll find some place for… other things to do.

Stiles had come up with nothing to stop Deputy Parrish from reporting them both out of breath in the back seat of Derek’s car a few nights before. They’d been dressed—mostly—but that’s why they were breathless, from frantically exerting to dress themselves while a flashlight’s beam cut through the dark and right to them.

Stiles’s explanation that he and Derek were there in the Preserve bird-watching—for owls, what else—had proved unconvincing.

So currently Stiles is under a nine o’clock curfew which so far he’s complying with, pretty remarkably his dad would admit—to himself only, never to Stiles.

Of course the added threat of grounding his son all summer should he break curfew before school’s end could be influencing Stiles’s good behavior, a little at least.

But Stiles isn’t thinking about that now. The whole day’s ahead of him, Derek’s in shorts and a top so snug Stiles can count his abs through it. It reminds him they should hit the pool.

“ _Forget it!”_ Lydia near screams when he and Derek simultaneously head for the first floor’s bathroom to change into their swimsuits. She’s leapt in front of the doorway, blocking it with her arms out.

Her parents took off to one of their weekend resorts, Lydia left in charge of looking out for the home front—assisted by multiple thousands of dollars in automated security, a visiting housekeeper, a platinum credit card in addition to the one already in her name, and long standing knowledge that Stiles and Derek should never be left alone when together.

“You can take it outside,” she says. “So much easier to just hose you both off and the immediate area afterward.”

“Our butts aren’t for public viewing!” Stiles makes clear.

Lydia demonstrates Stiles’s outburst being not worthy of reply by not replying. She disappears to a little space off the kitchen and returns with a chain lanyard dangling keys. She isolates one.

“This is the key to the screen house. It’s not officially opened yet but you can change in there!”

As Stiles reaches for the key, “ _Don’t!”_ Lydia barks out so abruptly that Stiles jumps back startled and so does Derek—“do anything else in there.”

“Uhh, probably we’ll just be trying to fit back into our skins the whole time,” Stiles says, snatching key and lanyard, with a wary look at Lydia.

The screen house is set back from the pool, but since no one else has arrived yet, no one sees them enter it.

The interior’s crammed with patio furniture. The only open space not in view of windows is in the far corner, the way to it impeded by all the furniture.

He’s scoping out a path when Stiles’s voice, low but gleeful, interjects: “Derek, this door locks from the inside.”

Derek looks to see Stiles pulling the handle and the door barely budging.

“Alone at last,” Stiles intones, _sotto voce_ , as he joins Derek in surveying the clutter strewn before them.

“Why do you think they’ve got all these things in here—not out by the pool?” Derek asks.

Derek’s innocence of this world’s ugly ways is one of Stiles’s favorite things about him. Nonetheless he’s gonna educate the guy.

“To keep our grubby peasant asses off it!” And with those words he shoves aside a chaise lounge. He takes Derek’s hand and by example gets him to start pushing things out of their way, till they reach the small, clear space.

“Alone at last!” Stiles repeats, this time with a kind of lunatic jubilation. He starts peeling Derek’s tank top upward.

Derek catches on immediately, lifting his arms. But once he feels Stiles’s mouth on his collar bone—

“Stiles, Stiles—wait. Wait,” he interrupts.

“What’s a matter?” Stiles whips his head around, checking for the latest intruder into their alone time.

There isn’t one.

“No, not _that_ ,” Derek begins, “but, yeah,” he giggles nervously, “ _that_.—It’s been a bad week—for us—you know, whenever we’ve—” He leaves the thought hanging.

Stiles soothes, “I know, I know.” Raking his fingernails tenderly along Derek’s temple he adds, “I think Mercury’s retrograde or something weird like that.”

Derek doesn’t even ask for an explanation.

“But listen,” Stiles continues. “There’s just one way into this place, and it’s _locked_. And I’ve got the keys,” which he jingles in his pocket. “— _And_ , there’s a million bucks’ worth of wicker and rust-resistant steel barricading us. _And_ , in case you didn’t notice, Lydia hadn’t yet achieved perfection of her look. I figure the only reason she even let us see her in an unfinished state is she was thinking of us as _the help_ , delivering refreshments. We have at least a good hour before she even thinks about us again.”

Stiles’s confidence—it’s irresistible, even though not once in the past ten days has it been any proof whatsoever against their getting caught in the act. Still, it frees something in Derek and giddily he pulls Stiles close, letting happiness carry him away.

Stiles wriggles loose enough to pull off his Captain America tee, which he claims he’s wearing in honor of the holiday (and which is not true. It was his only shirt to pass the sniff test that morning.)

After an unbroken interval of kissing to their satisfaction, “Wha’ do ya wanna do?” Stiles asks, a close whisper.

Derek pants, “I dunno.”

“I do!” Stiles declares, fumbling at the metal button keeping Derek’s shorts up.

“Ahh, yeah,” he sighs contentedly after he lets Derek’s hard dick free and just looks at it, amazed at how stiff it is and how it bows out and up.

“That’s some big cock, boo,” Stiles observes, though it’s not a new discovery. “Just sayin’.”

“You too.” Derek’s got half a grip on Stiles dick still inside his shorts.

Derek’s not one for talking much (unless he’s sharing his smarts answering teachers’ questions) but at that moment sex-brain might be wiping out his verbal powers.

Stiles grins, appreciating the direction Derek’s blood has gone instead of to his cranium.

There’s a wicker sofa with seat cushions behind him and that’s where Stiles propels Derek, yanking his shorts and undies further down before he’s seated so he can wedge himself between Derek’s knees.

Breathless, Derek watches Stiles wrap a fist around the tip of his dick, leaving just enough room to stick in his nose, swirling it over Derek’s glans—for an utterly novel sensation.

“Givin’ you a nose job,” Stiles says.

Derek’s feeling the good kind of tense. But Stiles’s joke shatters the tension and a short, near hysterical giggle erupts from him.

Once Stiles’s hand slides further down a bit, his tongue lapping at Derek’s dickhead, his lips encircling it and popping on and off it, Derek’s gone again.

This won’t be like a sleepy jerk off in bed, when Derek draws it out as long as he wishes. Stile’s mouth slides a little lower down with each bob—pretty adeptly for the oral sex novice that he is—though Derek has absolutely nothing for comparison. But his hushed, staccato “Oh’s” and “Stiles” clearly signal his satisfaction with the proceedings.

They both know this is just a window of opportunity to get off together— _together_ being the significant part—and they’re jumping at the chance. Still, Derek feels himself sinking into indifference about any other consideration. Stiles’s mouth feels _so good_.

It’s Stiles who interrupts the fun, to pull off Derek’s clothes completely.

“Lie down—stretch out,” he tells Derek as he helps him get horizontal on the sofa.

Stiles strips off his shorts—he’s sans underwear, Derek sees—leaving himself in just his sneakers, the same as Derek.

He’s as hard as Derek too.

Derek barely fits across the sofa and when Stiles clambers between Derek’ legs he’s got to lift one of them out of the way, resting it on the sofa back. Stiles has to keep a foot on the floor, contort himself to get his mouth back on Derek’s dick. It’s awkward, really awkward, but awkward, rushed, cramped—it’s all they know.

“I’m gonna make you come and nothing’s gonna stop me,” Stiles insists when his mouth’s not full of dick.

The remark deserves a witty comeback but all Derek manages is a breathy little laugh and a strained, “ _OK_.”

Despite his eagerness and determination, after a few more moments the effort to suck Derek to climax is killing Stiles’s neck. Licking Derek’s ball sack with lavish, slobbery strokes proves no easier, though Stiles persists.

Derek needs no prompt to start jerking himself, and even as bent up as his body is Stiles gets his hand around his own dick too, beating it to the sound of Derek’s grunts and huffs. They’d make Stiles laugh if he wasn’t already seconds from coming himself.

As Derek’s balls draw up tight Stiles cries, “I can’t wait!” and all but throws himself off the sofa, on his feet so he can pump out his seed, mixing it with the puddles Derek’s just spurted out, spotting the hairs on his abs, in his sternum. There’s even a drop on his throat.

Stiles never denies himself a daily orgasm or two (or three) but it looks like Derek hasn’t come in a week, which Stiles points out.

“Well,” Derek sighs, still recovering, “I feel like, I have a boyfriend, I should save my… sex time for him— _you_.”

Derek’s words strike Stiles unexpectedly right in his heart. Pure affection floods him the way only impatience and hostility usually do. He’s mute for a few seconds before ducking the oncoming emotion with, “Aww, boo. That’s devotion above and beyond.”

It calls for a kiss, which calls for Stiles bending over once more—which he does with his hand still gripping his softened dick.—They really need to think about the expensive private property they’re threatening with cum stains.

“You know you’re free you to spend your alone time as you please,” Stiles declares once upright again.

Derek stands his ground. “It’s just so— _better_ —when it’s with you.”

Stiles can’t handle the feelings. “Ya know, Derek, you’re… something.”

He gives up groping for words and says, “Now let’s just hope there’s a towel or tissues in here.”

Stiles heads for the tiny bathroom in the corner, Derek taking the opportunity to admire his boyfriend’s sexy butt before it disappears inside.

He hears some rustling and then “Yes!” and then water running.

Stiles returns, already cleaned up, with a washcloth to swab away the mess of semen covering Derek. His look of intent focus as he goes about the labor makes Derek reach out and lay a hand on Stiles’s shoulder. Stiles looks up and smiles.

Both wiped clean they examine the cushions and floor for any errant jizz.

Derek volunteers to wash out the cloth, returning to see Stiles pulling his shorts up.

“You don’t have a suit?” he asks.

“Only my birthday suit.”

Derek retrieves his swim trunks from where he’d dropped them on the floor but not before Stiles, appreciating the sight of his boyfriend naked except for sneakers (Stiles thinks it’s kinky), gets his arms around Derek from behind.

Derek relaxes into the embrace, and if his dick twitches when he feels kisses across his shoulders—well, he _is_ seventeen after all.

But Stiles stops the kissing and rubs his face behind Derek’s ear.

He whispers, in his deep voice, “I—I’m glad I got you, Derek.—You’re my guy.”

They hug face to face and share more kisses, but voices and laughs from outside get them back on task and back outdoors, once Derek’s got his trunks on and after one final look around their secret space, no time left to bask in their shared sense of achievement at last.

 

To their surprise they’ve been in the screen house long enough for a small crowd to have arrived, most around the pool. Stiles doesn’t even get to comment on it before he hears Jackson bellow, “IF IT ISN’T THE MAKEOUT KINGS OF BEACON HILLS HIGH!” from the towel where he sits cross-legged while Danny Mahealani smears lotion on his shoulders.

Stiles wishes he could muster up some joke about lube but he can’t think of one. Sharing orgasms with Derek and more than anything realizing he might be in love with the guy have whammied his acid tongue into quiescence.

Instead as he passes the pair, “What do you see in him, Mahealani?” is all he says, rewarded when Danny mouths “My dick,” silently, and Jackson remains unaware.

In the pool Erica’s straddling Boyd’s shoulders and Scott McCall’s riding Isaac Lahey’s. They’re jousting with pool noodles.

At the farther end sits Lydia, flanked by two girls Stiles doesn’t recognize. It looks like a fashion photo-shoot, Lydia in her deep green one piece bathing suit accented by white broad-brimmed sunhat and dark shades. Dainty gold-toned thongs that probably cost more than a week’s worth of groceries for the Stilinski household grace her pedicured, pink-toenailed feet.

“Why don’t I just go get our towels from the car while you bring her the keys,” Derek whispers.

“No way, buddy boy. After all we’ve been through you’re not bailing on me now, my man,” Stiles lets him know.

Derek lowers his voice to barely audible as they get close. “But she’s _scary_!”

“All bark, no bite,” Stiles says, cryptically he hopes because they’ve reached Lydia and company.

Maybe she’s staring daggers but from behind her sunglasses they don’t count. When Lydia sees the lanyard she just tips her head toward the little table beside her. Stiles politely lays down the keys when his usual urge to say _something_ strikes, and he doesn’t resist.

“On behalf of Derek and myself— _thanks, Lyds!”_

They whirl around and scurry away, grabbing each other’s hand and giggling like little kids.


End file.
